


Cursed

by camellia



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-04
Updated: 2015-05-11
Packaged: 2018-02-03 09:09:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1739135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/camellia/pseuds/camellia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Batman meets Beauty and the Beast.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Not sure what possessed me to write this. I hope it's at least somewhat entertaining.
> 
> In case it's not obvious: Dick is a candelabra, Jason is a cast iron skillet, Tim is a calculator, Damian is a teacup, Alfred is a clock, and Bruce is, well, the beast.

Selina Kyle had arrived in Gotham two weeks ago, fresh off a stint in Bedford Hills. Sure, she promised her lawyer, Marty Goldman, that she was on the straight and narrow now, but that was before she heard about Wayne Manor. First, there was the tragic back story. Word on the street was the last living Wayne offed himself right in the foyer at the tender young age of thirty-one. He'd been a playboy with a fat wallet and a different shade of blonde on his arm every week. Talk about first world problems. Then, there was the curse. The three cops who went to cut Bruce Wayne down had found him hanging precariously from a thousand-dollar chandelier: not by his neck, but upside down with the noose around his ankles. "Wayne’s eyes were wide open," the bartender at _Half Moon Club_ whispered to Selina, peeling his wrinkly eyelids back in imitation. "He stared at them, stared until them coppers went screaming for the hills!"

"And they all died," Selina finished, unimpressed, "within twenty-four hours. I've heard it a million times, Robbie."

"But then there was the gang of schoolboys, rich fellas from Gotham Academy," Robbie the bartender continued with relish. "Tried to rob the place, and they ended up in Arkham, mumbling about bats and fangs and red eyes."

"Mm hmm," Selina replied. Why couldn't she finish her gin and tonic in peace? Her eyes drifted to the television.  _Breaking News: Reporter Injured at Wayne Manor_. Robbie turned up the volume.

"... our very own Vicki Vale bravely took on Wayne Manor," the red-haired anchorwoman said. "She was found this morning by a jogger who recognized her by her hair. Ms. Vale suffers from first- and second-degree burns but is otherwise in stable condition. Fans are keeping vigil outside Gotham Memorial."

The screen cut to a ruddy-faced man, who shouted, "We want to know who hurt Ms. Vale, because she's real pretty. And we made t-shirts." He held up a plain black t-shirt, and the screen quickly cut back to the anchorwoman.

"Oh my," the bartender said, polishing a glass. "A monster in the manor." He sounded delighted.

Selina shrugged, sucking pensively on a lime. All she knew was that Wayne Manor had a safe that hadn’t been touched in years. And surely Bruce Wayne, dead or undead, wouldn’t miss a few jewels.

 

~

 

 _Night of truth_ , Selina thought. She entered Wayne Manor through a side window in the west wing. The room had a single rose, or what she assumed used to be a rose--only a single petal remained--probably a cheap fake. The rest of the wing was mostly empty, dotted with a few dated paintings and marble busts. Selina moved silently towards the open door. That’s when she heard the voices.

“We have a week, tops, Dick,” a male voice said urgently. “And Bruce is in denial, or he’s given up. We have to make a plan, _now_.”

“And not like your last plan,” snorted another male voice. “We don’t need Damian burning someone’s face off again.”

“She deserved it,” a younger voice grumbled.

“Guys, I--” a fourth voice started.

Selina froze behind the door. Then a shadow fell upon her, and she knew no more.

 

~

 

Selina woke up hours later, cuffed to the wall. A rose-gold candelabra shaped like an angel hovered in front of her. Selina shook her head. Objects did not _hover_. “Jeez, Dick, I don’t think she’ll be much better than that journalist,” a voice said. Selina could have sworn that it came directly from a large calculator resting innocuously on the desk.

“She’s awake, dumbass,” a harsh voice guffawed. A cast iron skillet (what was it doing in the library?) sitting on a nearby chair seemed to tremble slightly.

“It’s okay,” the candelabra said soothingly, still inexplicably floating. The angel-candelabra had two flames, one in each outstretched hand. Selina scrunched her eyes and shook her head again. The candelabra smiled.

“I know all about you, Selina Kyle,” the candelabra said, not unkindly. “I know why you’re here.” The candelabra glided to the corner and returned with a blue glistening crown.

“The Sapphire Diadem,” Selina croaked. God, she must be hallucinating. The Sapphire Diadem was worth millions. It was Selina’s dream--perhaps the only treasure she would never sell--and had disappeared somewhere in the northeast decades ago; no way was it here at Wayne Manor.

“That’s right, Selina,” the candelabra said, dangling the diadem right in front of her nose. “Thomas Wayne secretly bought this beauty from Avery Gates in 1976.”

Now the calculator floated her way. “You’ve heard rumors that Wayne Manor is cursed, haven’t you?” it said. “But the truth is, Selina,” the calculator said, pausing for dramatic effect, “the manor isn’t cursed … _we_ are.”

The cast iron skillet awkwardly rolled an elegant standing mirror towards them, and Selina nearly fainted. She had to be dreaming.

The Sapphire Diadem was still there. But instead of a candelabra, she saw the reflection of a young man with blue eyes, wavy black hair, and a charismatic smile. “This diadem is yours,” the young man said, “if you can help us break the spell.”

The cast iron skillet, who in the mirror appeared to be a broad-shouldered man with a forelock of white hair, exhaled loudly. “It’s not going to work,” he grumbled.

“It’s all we’ve got,” the calculator said firmly.

“You’ve got nothing to lose if you indulge us,” the candelabra said. “And if you don’t …” The flames in the angel’s hands were suddenly snuffed out.

“That reporter … Vicki Vale,” Selina rasped, recalling the broadcast. “You did that?” she asked, staring at the candelabra.

“Ha! Angel boy would never,” the skillet said. “Hey, don’t look at me!” the skillet squawked, when Selina cast it an accusatory glare.

“Tt. It was me,” another voice said smugly. A small black teacup with a chipped rim entered the library and floated ominously in front of Selina. “And I could do the same to you, too, if you don’t stay in line,” it threatened.

“Relax, relax, no one’s burning anyone’s face off,” the candelabra said, shooing the teacup away. “It’ll only be a week,” he continued, addressing Selina again. “Not that you have a choice. But after that, we’ll let you go with the diadem. Scout’s honor.”

Selina rolled her eyes. This candelabra sure was an odd duck. “Well I don’t have much of a choice, do I,” she shrugged. It was the first time in her life that she had no idea what she was dealing with--magical mushrooms, a prolonged dream, or worse, animated household objects. But Selina would deal, as she always did, and claw her way out of this bizarre nightmare the first chance she got.

“That’s the spirit,” the candelabra said, its flames alight again. “Now, here’s the plan ….”

 

~

 

Now Selina was sure the curse was real. The talking candlestick hadn’t convinced her, but this … monster was something far beyond Selina's powers of imagination. After explaining the plan, the cast-iron skillet and calculator had escorted Selina to dinner--or, more accurately, had somehow tied her to a chair and placed her in the dining room. They had assured her that she wasn’t part of the menu, but now she wasn’t so sure. Shortly after the appetizer (a plate of bruschetta) had literally walked into the room of its own accord, the beast arrived. It was a grotesque hybrid of bat and man with two sharp upturned ears, bright lidless eyes, a pink snout, and fangs as long as her hand. His entire body was covered in dark tawny fur, and his humanoid arms had black leathery wings and ended in glistening claws. He held the candelabra tightly in his right hand. “What’s this?” he growled.

“This is Selina Kyle,” the candelabra said sweetly. “She was just passing through, and we thought she could join you for dinner.”

“Are you--are you trying to set me up,” the beast said incredulously. Selina snorted silently. If what the skillet and calculator said about the curse was true, then they were all royally screwed.

The candelabra twisted in the monster’s grip, staring at Selina.

“This bruschetta looks divine,” she said, trying not to sound entirely disgusted. Internally, she shuddered. No way was she putting her lips anywhere near that … thing.

The candelabra hopped onto the table and scooted the plate towards the beast. The flames in the angel’s hands seemed to flicker. The beast resignedly took a slice of bruschetta into his hands, as if eating gourmet food were a tedious chore.

“Ms. Kyle ... what brings you to Gotham?” the beast said, not sounding the least bit interested.

“Just visiting some friends,” Selina lied.

“Charming,” the beast said with a snort. Selina tried not to snap back. The calculator hadn’t been too clear on the details, but she figured that the beast must be Bruce Wayne. For a man on the verge of serving a life sentence as a saber-toothed Chewbacca, he seemed remarkably unperturbed.

"So, Selina," the candelabra said, wriggling out of the beast's grip and hopping gracefully onto the table. "Where are you from?"

“New York,” Selina lied again. “My parents teach at Columbia. What about yours?”

“Dead,” the beast snapped. The candelabra winced.

“Oh. I’m … sorry,” Selina said, her voice softer.

At that, the cast iron skillet floated into the room with a brass-mahogany grandfather clock at his side. “Braised lamb with gremolata,” the clock said, its voice distinctly English. Selina gaped at the steaming plate of two generously-sized lamb shanks. “Don’t worry, Ms. Kyle,” the clock said. “It’s not alive.”

“Pan-seared salmon on baby arugula and roasted asparagus with caper vinaigrette,” the cast iron skillet grunted, setting another two dishes on the table. “Bon appétit … or whatever.”

The grandfather clock tutted at the skillet. “Enjoy your meal,” he said pleasantly, and then they both disappeared around the corner.

“Well, dig in!” the angel-candelabra said, eyeing the lamb covetously. "You're the guest.”

“Can you …?” Selina started, looking at the food and back at the candelabra with a raised eyebrow.

“No,” the beast interrupted. Then it finished a lamb shank in two bites, tossed an entire salmon steak into its mouth, downed half the plate of asparagus, and stood up abruptly.

“Bruce!” the candelabra said angrily, then immediate looked guilty at having spoken the beast’s name.

“Don’t worry, angel,” Selina said. “I already knew.”

“Hn,” the beast said, “Good night.” He picked the candelabra up and swiftly walked out of the room.

Selina shrugged. “It’s your funeral,” she muttered once they were both out of earshot.


	2. Chapter 2

Dick Grayson, ex-acrobat and now full-time candlestick, was furious. On the way to the beast’s chambers, his flames flickered on and off at random intervals. He nearly singed the beast’s hands out of spite.

“Dick,” the beast said, his tone gravely and warning.

“Don’t ‘Dick’ me, Bruce,” he said. “You know this is our last chance! There’s only one petal left! Do you _want_ to look like a blood-sucking orangutan forever?”

The beast snarled. He knew very well what he looked like, thank you very much, and he did not like to be reminded. Bruce Wayne lived in a pleasantly dark space between denial and anger. “You don’t understand, Dick,” he said. “It wouldn’t have worked. Selina would never have loved me.”

“But you didn’t even try,” Dick retorted. “Bruce, we have one week. One week before this nightmare,” he said, gesticulating wildly in the air, “becomes reality. If Selina’s not right for your cold frigid heart, fine. But you better have someone else in mind.”

 

~

 

“We’re doomed,” Dick moaned, hopping forlornly into the library.

“Jason told me dinner was a disaster,” Tim sighed. His calculator display lit up. "I’m taking another crack at tracking down Madame Xanadu. Who knows, maybe eightieth time’s the charm,” he said glumly.

“Where’s Selina?” Dick asked.

“Over here,” an annoyed voice echoed from the futon. “You know, I don’t really sleep well when I’m tied to the bed. Or have a frying pan over my head. There’s an X-rated joke in there somewhere, but I’m too tired right now.” She yawned. “Look, buds, the way I see it, you either get Madame Xanadu to lift the curse, or you find yourself another poor girl to shove under that freak’s nose. I’m not the one.”

“No,” Jason said. He somehow managed to scowl, despite being a skillet. “But you’re the _only_ one available right now. And we can’t exactly leave this hellhole.”

“Why not? The curse had fine print?”

“To say the least,” the calculator said, typing madly on his laptop. “Madame Xanadu’s exact words were:

_'You took my affections for granted,_

_Now a curse upon you have I planted._

_This seed shall sprout into a rose,_

_And your darkest manner shall be exposed._

_A curse upon your household too,_

_Imprisoned on the grounds with you._

_Dare not pass beyond the gate_

_Else you, too, shall pass to your fate._

_And if a prisoner should come to love you_

_Before the last rose petal falls,_

_Let them declare their heart to be true_

_And you may yet be human after all.'"_

“What a godawful poem,” Selina laughed. She hummed for a moment, thinking. “Well, according to the curse,” she said, “you’re all prisoners too. So if one of you would just swoon over the man-beast ….”

“Tt! He’s my father!” the black teacup said, disgusted.

“Whoops, sorry Oedipus,” she replied. She peered at all four objects, intrigued. “So he’s your father. I’m guessing the clock is Jeeves. Where’s your, uh, mother?”

“Only teacup is his son,” Tim said, still typing away. “My parents are still alive. I was just a college student using Bruce’s labs. He’s got state-of-the-art tech under this house.”

“That’s creepy, but okay,” Selina said skeptically. She looked up at the cast iron skillet hovering above her. “What’s your excuse?”

“I was actually, uh, in one of his cars,” Jason said, “And when the curse activated, all of his shit was recalled back here.”

“And why were you in his car?” Selina said, raising her eyebrow.

“Stole it,” he replied unapologetically.

“Alright, not as creepy, I’ll buy it.”

“If you want creepy,” Jason smirked, “Bruce took in candlesticks here when you were, what, 12? 16?”

“Something like that,” Dick said, crossing his golden arms and looking uncomfortable. “But he’s not my father.”

Selina was about to say something smart when, suddenly, they heard a crash downstairs.

“No way,” Tim groaned, checking the manor’s cameras on his laptop. “Intruders in the garage. Friends of yours?” he threw a pointed look at the skillet.

“No!” Jason growled, approaching the screen. He squinted. “Actually, yeah, I know them.”

 

~

 

“This is definitely the car that Jason stole,” a girl with exceptionally bronze skin said, surveying a jet black Acura NSX. “So where is he?”

“I don’t know,” her friend replied. He sounded anxious. “Let’s just head for basement. We grab the Drake kid … hell, maybe Jason’s down there too.”

“His parents totally aren’t paying us enough,” the girl groused, squatting next to the back door. She used a handheld laser to carve around the doorknob. “We should be getting at least a hundred grand just for stepping in this place. Did you see the news about the reporter? You did bring your fire extinguisher arrows, right?”

“Don’t worry,” her friend said, standing guard. “She probably just fell into the fireplace or something,” he reasoned. But he didn’t sound convinced.

 

~

 

“Alright,” the candelabra said. “Tim, they’re headed for the kitchen. There’s only two of them, so just lock them in for now. Jason, you’re on prison duty.”

“We can’t lock them in for a week!” the skillet said.

“It’s just a temporizing measure,” Dick replied. “We’ve got a mob headed our way.” He pointed to the camera feeds recording the public road outside Wayne Manor. At least a dozen trucks and vans had parked outside the gates, and men in matching black t-shirts were getting out.

“More reporters?” Damian said with disdain.

“Vicki’s Vengeance,” Tim said, reading the blood-red lettering emblazoned across the back of every shirt. “Damn it, Damian, they’re here _because_ of that reporter you took out!”

“Need I remind you, Drake, she tried to _kill_ father!” Damian retorted. The teacup clinked against the desk for emphasis.

“Past is past,” Dick said grimly, moving between the teacup and calculator before either imploded. The mob of men, at least forty strong, was moving swiftly towards the manor. “Maximum security on all entrances. No one in, no one out.”

“Aw, shit,” Selina whined from the futon.


	3. Chapter 3

“The doors are all locked, Thomas!” one of the black-shirted men yelled.

“Did’ja think it was going to be that easy?” Thomas guffawed. “Stand back, everyone! Stand back! We’re goin’ in with a bang!” He lobbed a stick of dynamite at the glass-paneled double doors. “Whoo-ee!” he said, as the men erupted in cheers. “That’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout!”

But when the smoke cleared, the double doors were barely singed. Meanwhile, the topiaries on either side lay in smithereens.

“Swing and a miss!” one of the men laughed.

Enraged, Thomas threw three sticks at the doors. Nothing. The glass panels glinted in the moonlight, mocking him.

“It’s cursed!” the man next to Thomas shouted. He ran screaming towards the road. The crowd for Vicki’s Vengeance was growing restless.

One brave man stepped forward to inspect the door. “It’s reinforced, Tom,” he said. “Live security. Someone knows we’re here.”

A few men lobbed rocks at the windows, which bounced off without so much as a shatter. “What the fuck’s going on?” someone said, to general murmurs of agreement.

“This manor’s like a castle,” the brave man said, evidently impressed.

Thomas grinned. “Then, for the love of Vicki, we lay siege.”

 

~

 

“I thought Bruce’s fan girls were crazy,” the candelabra groaned. “This is just ridiculous.”

“I think someone’s going to drive their car into the house, Dick!” the calculator shouted. “I don’t think we can take another hit to the front!”

“We need to eliminate them,” the teacup rattled angrily.

“We need a plan,” Dick corrected. “Selina, how much do you want that diadem?”

 

~

 

“‘Tis I, the spirit of Bruce Wayne!” Dick thundered, hovering near an empty tuxedo high above the mob.

“Ghosts don’t scare me, pal!” Thomas shouted. “I never liked Bruce Wayne, dead or alive. And now I’ve got a helicopter with a nice explosive present for you. So you best get out of the way if you don’t want to die twice!” On cue, the roar of a chopper descended upon the manor.

“Everyone to the basement!” Dick whispered into his headset. “We're dealing with a rich homicidal maniac. He may have a bomb.”

“Another one? And I can't locate Bruce!” Tim whispered.

“Damn it,” Dick groaned. “Give me a minute.”

“Stand down,” Dick shouted again, but his words were lost under harsh whir of the helicopter. He sighed, and the empty tuxedo deflated a little.

“Stop!” Selina said, bursting dramatically onto the balcony. “For god’s sake, you’ll kill us all!”

The crowd rallied. “There’s a woman up there, Thomas!” one voice cried. “There’s a woman on the balcony!”

“That candelabra is real pretty,” another voice said.

“We’ve got a hostage situation!” Thomas said, as the helicopter hovered above the lawn. “How many of you are there?”

“Three!” Dick shouted. “And there’ll be zero unless you get off my lawn!”

“You’re lying, Bruce Wayne!” Thomas said gleefully. “My infrared scanner is picking up four people in the manor! You’re still alive, you bastard, I know it!” He took a shot at the empty suit, barely missing a startled Selina. “Now you hand over those nice ladies right this minute, or I’ll nuke your house to hell and back!”

“Selina, basement!” Dick shouted, as the crowd followed Thomas’s lead and began shooting with varying degrees of accuracy at the tuxedo suit.

“I wanna see the real Bruce Wayne!” Thomas crowed. “C’mon Brucie, I know you’re in there! Bombs away, Russ!” he signaled to the helicopter pilot, who dropped the first explosive on the garage.

 

~

 

 _Shitshitshitshitshitshitshit_ , Dick thought. The crowd, having finally gained entrance through the garage, was now prowling through the manor, half-drunk on power and half-scared out of their wits. It wasn’t a promising combination. At least everyone was in the bomb shelter, which was built to literally withstand a nuclear apocalypse. Everyone except for Bruce.

“Grab that candle, Gus,” Thomas said, as one faction of the mob entered the west wing. “There ain’t no light in here, and I can’t see a thing.”

Gus, an overweight man with sausage-fingers and a surprisingly well-coiffed comb over, reached for Dick, who instantly jumped out of reach. “This candlestick’s hopping,” he complained.

“Oh, fer god’s sake, Gus,” Thomas said. He made a swipe at Dick as well.

“Get your hands off the candle,” a menacing voice said. Two fangs glinted in the darkness, and the crowd dimmed to a rustle.

Dick wanted to face-palm, although that was generally not advised when both your hands were candles. He couldn’t watch. He snuffed out his two flames, hoping that Bruce would take the hint and just _go_.

Instead, Bruce stepped dramatically into the thin sliver of moonlight. A few shots rang out, but the bullets rolled off his hide like rain on a windowpane. Half a dozen men bolted for the door, while the rest stood in place, immobilized in fear. “You wanted to see me, Thomas,” he said, before unceremoniously throwing the other man against the wall. “Who’s next?”

“Tim?” Dick whispered into his headset, “I found Bruce.”

“No kidding,” Tim replied, watching on the monitor from the bunker as Bruce prowled from room to room, systematically knocking out Vicki’s Vengeance. “He kinda hulked out.”

“Yeah,” Dick said, floating into the dining room. He disabled one member of Vicki’s Vengeance with a well-placed blow to the neck and looked on fondly as Bruce clapped two heads together. “He kinda did.”

 

~

  
Back in the west wing, a dazed Thomas was coming to. _No more southern gentleman_ , he thought. He was fuming. He wanted to move, but then remembered that the manor was bugged. Someone was watching. But no matter; that monster would come back to the west wing eventually. That rose dancing in the moonlight sure looked important.

 

~

 

Bruce limped up the stairs. His back was killing him. He hadn’t moved so much since he was, well, Batman. And now he was a deconditioned hairy monster. Dick had called him a blood-sucking orangutan. He sighed, catching sight of the rose through an open door. Dick was right. There was only one petal left.

He stepped closer. Was it just him, or did the petal seem a little looser today?

“Bruce, where are you?” Dick’s voice echoed from the hallway.

Bruce shut the door. He needed to be alone right now.

 

~

 

“ARGH!” Bruce shouted. Damn fanboy had stabbed him in the back.

Dick pushed open the door, which was no easy feat for a candelabra. “You idiot!” he cried.

“I’m alright, Dick,” Bruce rasped. “The knife got stuck between my … scales.”

“You have scales?” Dick said.

Bruce looked away, frowning.

“You know I love you, right Bruce?”

“Hn,” Bruce grunted, trying to wriggle the knife out. Damn it, he couldn't get a good grip on the hilt with his claws.

“You’re not my dad, Bruce,” he said.

“Never said I was.”

“You’re not my brother, either,” Dick said, hopping onto Bruce’s back and jimmying the knife out. “Wow,” he whispered, peering at the wound. “You really _do_ have fur and scales.”

“Will you drop it with the scales!” Bruce roared suddenly, throwing Dick off his back. “I get it. You’re a beautiful angel, I’m a hideous overgrown rodent. With scales. You don’t need to—”

And then Dick shut him up with a kiss. Which was actually tremendously awkward, given that the entire head of the candelabra was about the size of one of the beast’s fangs. But it happened.

"Remind you that I love you anyway?"

Suddenly, the rose in the center of the room shrunk back into a seed and broadcast a blinding white light.

“What the …” Tim said, as he watched from the post-apocalyptic bunker. Then the light made it past the triple-reinforced door, and he became too pre-occupied with the fact that he was finally _human_ again to think anymore.

 

~

 

“So what do we do with Vicki’s Vengeance?” Dick said, once they had gathered all the unconscious bodies in the foyer.

“A bolus of the IV amnestic should be good enough,” Bruce replied, tugging at his collar. It was hard getting used to wearing suits again. The rags he’d donned as the beast had been so, well, freeing. “You should have knocked them out when they were at the front door. We have aerosol sprays built into the balcony.”

“Well, it’s a good thing we did not, Master Bruce,” Alfred said, starting a central line on one of the men.

“You cheated, Drake!” Damian screaming, running across the foyer after Tim.

“I won fair and square,” Tim shouted, “you homicidal maniac!”

“Yeah, good thing,” Bruce said dryly.

“Hey, how about a movie night!” Dick said cheerily. He dragged Bruce towards the flat screen, where Jason was playing Grand Theft Auto IV.

“Almost as good as the real thing,” Jason quipped.

Dick scrolled through films on his tablet. “ _Birdman_?”

Bruce grunted.

“ _Boyhood_?”

Bruce scowled and took the tablet.

“ _Guardians of the Galaxy_?” Dick said with a mischievous smile. “Are you sure, Bruce? It’s got a talking raccoon.”

“Let’s watch _The Avengers_ ,” Tim said, flopping onto the couch. “You might relate to Iron Man.”

“Or the hulk,” Dick added, kissing Bruce on the cheek.

“Jason, you are an abominable driver,” Damian said, as Jason’s Porsche crashed onscreen. He sat on the couch farthest away from Tim.

“Shut up, twerp,” Jason said. “Where’s the popcorn?”


End file.
